You Owe Me
by dysprositos
Summary: Natasha needs Clint to do one of her missions for her. This is the last time he's doing anything nice for another person.


**Please note that this story contains torture. It's not very graphic, but some people are sensitive about that sort of thing. **

**Thanks to my beta, irite, for putting up with my fluffy Clint/Natasha friendship feels.**

**I do not own The Avengers.**

* * *

He felt, rather than heard, the metacarpals of his right hand crunch under the heel of a boot.

It was a nauseating feeling, and Clint retched, partly from the sensation and partly from the pain. He couldn't move, couldn't pull away, because there was another foot between his shoulder blades pinning him to the ground, and at the moment, he didn't think moving was a particularly good idea anyway.

The barrel of the rifle at the base of his skull warned against it, pressing against his neck firmly.

_This_, Clint decided, _is the last time I ever do anything nice for another person_.

And then something hard cracked him on the back of the head, and he was out like a light.

* * *

"And why can't you do it again?" He was leaning casually against the door frame, looking into the bathroom.

Natasha lifted her head from the toilet she'd just finished vomiting into and glared, white-faced and shiny with sweat. "I have _food poisoning_, Barton. I'm not going anywhere 'til I'm not puking every five minutes." She took a deep breath and stood, hitting the flush handle and grabbing her bottle of mouthwash.

Clint watched her rinse her mouth out, torn between laughter and pity. He'd had his fair share of food poisoning—had once been quite the fan of oysters, but not anymore—and so he knew how much she was suffering. Still, he couldn't help but point out, "This is what you get for eating Stark's clam chowder. You know that man can't cook."

She spat the mouthwash into the sink and rinsed it out. Bitterly, she muttered, "I didn't know _he _made it, I thought he'd _ordered _it. Why would he cook?"

"Bruce," Clint answered simply. "He's trying to impress him." Honestly, Clint thought it was kind of cute, though he honestly couldn't figure out if Tony was trying to woo Bruce or just become his BFF. He hoped it was the latter—he liked Pepper, didn't want Tony to lose something that fantastic. Of course, maybe Pepper was okay with a threesome...

Natasha did not, apparently, think it was cute and interrupted his reverie with a terse, "How nice for them. Does _Bruce _have food poisoning?"

"Er, no. You're the only one who braved the chowder."

She pushed past him roughly, going to curl up on the bed in a miserable ball. "I love clam chowder. Loved. I _loved _clam chowder." She closed her eyes with a weary sigh.

"Nat. The mission?"

Groaning, she looked up at him. "Look, it's easy. In and out. Fury wants the information on this guy's hard drive. I was going to wine and dine him—" abruptly, she got up and ran for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

When she came back, Clint was laying on the half of her bed that she had left undisturbed, hands behind his head.

"Get your nasty boots off my bed," Natasha demanded, with about five hundred percent less vehemence than she could normally muster. In fact, Clint almost felt confident enough to ignore her.

Almost, but not quite. He kicked his boots off. "Sorry. The mission?"

She gingerly laid next to him. "Yeah. I was going to get the mark drunk, maybe give him a little something extra, and download the files while he was out." She turned her head to face him. "You might want to take a different approach, I don't think you're his type."

Clint was deeply wounded. "I'm everyone's type."

"Shut up. Will you do it?"

"Can't it wait 'til you're better?" Clint hated doing undercover work passionately, and this would probably entail at least _some _of that.

"No. Fury thinks there's going to be an attack in the next few days. He needs the intel so we can be prepared."

Clint sighed. He supposed this was the sort of thing he'd signed up for, agreeing to work for both SHIELD and the Avengers. Slave to two masters and all. "Ugh, fine. I'll do it."

She smiled, though it looked more like a pained grimace. "Great. Fury's expecting you at 8:00 tomorrow morning."

"...You already told him I'd do it?"

"Of course I did."

He didn't answer, and within a few moments, Natasha had fallen asleep.

Then, he extricated himself from the bed, grabbed his boots, and headed over to his own rooms to get ready to go.

He shot Natasha one last fond look before he left. _The things I do for you...even when your breath smells like puke_.

* * *

His right hand had swollen to almost twice its normal size, and twitching his fingers even a small amount sent sharp tendrils of pain almost to his elbow. He couldn't do more than twitch his fingers. Which meant that using his bow was completely out of the question.

Not that he was really planning on it, at the moment. He had, after all, just regained consciousness and found himself duct taped to a chair.

Clint didn't think that was too bad, though. Duct tape was doable. It was better than the handcuffs you had to dislocate your thumb to get out of. One of his hands was already fucked up, he didn't really fancy screwing with the other one, too. He could still use a gun left-handed.

The room he was in was brightly lit, white, and nowhere that he recognized. There was a camera in one corner, and one wall was taken up with a mirror that was almost certainly one-way glass.

He was, apparently, being watched.

Behind him, a door opened.

"You," a voice said, "Are not the Black Widow."

* * *

The mission briefing had been surprisingly...brief. He was supposed to find the mark in São Paulo, get the files, and get out. The 'why' was pretty much nonexistent, which didn't bother Clint much—if he needed to know, they'd tell him—but its absence was conspicuous.

He thought of calling Nat for more info, but decided to let her rest. God knew she needed it.

* * *

"You're right, I'm not the Black Widow," Clint said. "Nice deduction."

The man—a complete stranger, not anyone connected to the mission—backhanded him, snapping Clint's head to the side. He wished, then, that he could shut up and _not _say every snarky thing that crossed his mind.

"Where is she?"

Clint ran his tongue along his teeth, tasting blood. God damn it. "She's home sick with the stomach flu. But luckily, she sent me, the far more good-looking member of our little—"

He was cut off abruptly with another slap.

This time, blood flooded his mouth when his teeth cut the inside of his cheek.

Clint pulled on his duct-taped hands, a dribble of blood running down his chin.

_Fuck this shit._

* * *

Clint knew this mission was going to be fubar when his plane got shot down in the literal middle of a South American jungle.

He was still a few hours out from his landing site, there should have been no one around. Let alone anyone capable of shooting down an aircraft. Let alone a SHIELD aircraft.

He'd been so surprised from the impact and the subsequent alarms blaring in the cabin that it had taken him a moment to register what had happened. But then he was on autopilot, working to eject himself from the rapidly-descending jet. He grabbed his bag of gear before hitting the button to open the hatch and jumping out.

Parachuting was one of his least favorite activities, and parachuting into what was apparently hostile territory ranked even further down the list. Still, between that and dying in a fiery plane crash, he'd take the parachute.

He'd gotten tangled in a tree, of course, because this was the fucking jungle. And then when he'd cut himself down, using the knife in a sheath on his ankle, he'd landed on his stuff, which dug deeply and painfully into his back.

Clint had sworn before he'd had the good goddamn sense to shut his trap, and then he'd heard people approaching, whacking through the undergrowth with what sounded like machetes.

So Clint had practically leapt off the ground, ignoring the bruise forming on his back, and darted away, shimmying up another tree 'til he was out of sight.

The voices had gotten closer, and Clint had been surprised to hear they were speaking English. "There's her chute. She can't be far." He watched as they spread out, his keen eyesight proving very convenient.

_She?_

Evidently, these people had been expecting him. Well. Expecting Nat. That didn't bode well.

He'd ended up staying in that tree for the better part of six hours, hoping a jaguar or something didn't come along and eat him. Only then had he felt secure enough to pull out his phone, turn it on, and call this disaster in.

"Barton, report," Fury had barked. Clint wondered if he was imagining the concern in his voice. "We got a report that your jet went down."

"Uh, yup. It did." In the dark, at the top of his tree, he'd been able to see the faint orange glow where the wreck was smouldering a few miles away.

"Care to explain that, agent?"

"I got shot down, sir," Clint had said frankly. "And no, I don't know by who."

"Hmph," Fury had muttered. "Let me trace your location."

Clint waited. He'd known Fury couldn't have done it before—he'd had his phone off. He'd probably tracked the jet already, though.

After a moment, Fury'd barked, "We can extract you in the morning, if you can make it to one of our extraction points."

Which had sounded wonderful to Clint, but he'd felt obliged to point out, "They were expecting me, sir."

Fury had sighed and muttered, "That's...unexpected."

He had not offered anything else.

And so Clint had snapped, "Sir, I am sitting in a tree in the north of Brazil. It is dark, I am hungry, and I really need to pee. Is there a _reason _for any of this, and if so, could you maybe get to the point?"

"Just get to the extraction point, Barton. I'll send you the coordinates."

Clint had frowned mightily at that. "What about the data, sir? The _mission?_"

"It's not important, agent. Just get out of there."

Clint just loved working for SHIELD. Yes, indeed, he did.

* * *

One eye was swollen shut, he had crusted blood on his face, and he was getting really tired of this.

"Where is the Black Widow?"

"Alaskan cruise." He was getting less creative as time passed. His favorite answer thus far had been 'up your ass,' and that had earned him his black eye. He was kind of proud.

The man punched Clint in the stomach, and Clint groaned. That _hurt_. He really needed to start thinking of a way to get out of this, but he was kind of distracted at the moment. Maybe once this douchebag left, he'd have some time to think.

"Where is the Black Widow?"

"Seriously," Clint wheezed. "She's not here. I told you—"

Another punch to the stomach. "I know she's here. Tell me."

This was getting old.

* * *

Clint had a flashlight, but he didn't want to use it. He suspected they were still looking for him, and he didn't want to send up a neon sign, 'Guy who is not Black Widow but is still your enemy over here.'

His caution was a waste of time anyway.

The extraction point was four miles from his tree, a small village with enough road to land a plane. He'd set out slowly, using his knife to get through the worst of the undergrowth and praying to everything he believed in that he wouldn't meet anything that was too keen on eating him.

He made it about halfway to the village before he heard a twig snap nearby.

_You have got to be fucking kidding me_,he'd thought to himself. He was so _close._

He had his bow slung across his back, and slowly he reached up and grabbed it along with an arrow. But the only light was coming from the moon above, and he couldn't see anything through the deep shadows.

_That's 'cause I'm 'Hawkeye' and not 'Owleye' or fucking something, _he'd thought with absolutely _no _bitterness at all.

And then someone had fired a gun.

Instinct had taken over and Clint had dropped down, hearing the bullet whiz by him. He'd rolled, firing an arrow in the general direction he thought the shot had come from. Then he'd heard footsteps approaching at a run, and before he could move, a boot had connected with the side of his head, and he was down.

He'd twisted and somersaulted away, dizzy, and had crashed into a tree before leaping to his feet. Despite his double vision, he'd been able to see that he'd been surrounded by about ten guys, all decked out in night vision gear. Wishing he had his own night vision gear on him, he raised his bow and loosed an arrow, aiming for the nearest person.

He'd heard a wet 'thock,' and a groan, but then the others had moved in. He'd fought, but even with all his training he wasn't a match for nine armed people.

So he'd found himself on his stomach, pinned to the ground, gun at his head.

With some asshole stomping his hand.

* * *

When the door burst open, Clint's first reaction was annoyance. Dealing with one random asshole pummeling him was bad enough, he didn't want to add more.

Then he saw who it was, and he was more annoyed.

"Lookin' good, Legolas," Tony Stark called, sauntering into the room. As much as one _could _saunter while wearing a metal suit of armor.

The man who'd been in the process of blackening Clint's other eye turned around when the door had opened, surprised. Tony lazily aimed one repulsor at him and blasted him across the room. He did not try to get up.

"All clear!" Tony called over his shoulder, flipping his face plate up. Steve popped his head in, hair mussed, tear in his suit, but otherwise looking way too Captain America-y for Clint's tastes. Apparently, whatever fight they had fought in order to get into this place hadn't done much to daunt Steve.

But he was holding a knife, at least, which he used to free Clint from his sticky restraints.

"Thanks," Clint muttered, wiping a hand across his face to get the blood off. He succeeded only in smearing it.

"Uh, no problem," Steve answered. "Bet you're ready to go, huh?"

"You have no idea," Clint said. He stood and stretched, relieved to be standing despite the pain it caused.

And when Tony looked like he was going to make a smart comment, Clint's blood-caked frown was enough to silence him.

* * *

"You owe me."

"I know."

"Did you even have food poisoning?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Still do. It was convenient, though. I would have found _some _excuse to foist my mission off on you, but that worked just as well."

"Right. Couldn't just tell me what was up?"

"Fury's orders. It had to look genuine. And you hate going undercover, so really, it was to help you."

"Yeah, really fucking helpful." He poked gingerly at the bruising around his eyes, at his broken nose. "But you know I'm always glad to be of service."

He _had _been that, even if the whole 'mission' had been a farce.

Fury had explained it to Clint while medical had been patching him up. Apparently, Fury had suspected they had a leak somewhere in the SHIELD hierarchy. To isolate it, he'd arranged this convoluted mission, telling some people that Natasha would be doing the mission, telling others that it had been changed last minute. He wanted to see where the information went, and what version was spread.

The 'data' Clint had been 'stealing' had just been a diversion, really, to hide the fact that Fury was trying to flush out the leak.

The only problem with his plan was that Natasha had a bit of a reputation in São Paulo, and there had been some people in the area who'd been very eager to get ahold of her when they'd heard through the grapevine that she was going to be there.

Fury, in all his genius, hadn't accounted for that. Small oversight, really. Natasha hadn't known that Fury was sending Clint there, or else she would have stepped in and said something. At least, that's what she'd said. And Clint didn't doubt her, he just wished Fury had been a little more forthcoming all around. Paranoid asshole.

So when Clint ran into trouble, as it was his habit to, Fury had sent Stark and Rogers in on an impromptu rescue mission. Which they'd executed surprisingly well, considering the two of them worked together terribly.

Really, though, the plan was very clever and super-spyish, but Clint wasn't in an appreciative mood. Considering he could have died in the plane crash. Or been eaten by a jaguar. Or tortured to death.

"That asshole knocked one of my teeth out."

"Sorry." Natasha actually sounded sorry, too, and that went a long way to soothe Clint's raised hackles. He felt his lingering irritation start to fade.

The pair of them were lying on Natasha's bed, like they had been before Clint had gone on his 'mission.' Clint's hand was in a cast, and he kept that arm curled up on top of him. The rest of his injuries, though painful, were mostly superficial, although his nose was going to take a while to heal.

"You look awful," Natasha muttered, turning her head to face him. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead and she had dark circles under her eyes that Clint suspected may not have been entirely related to her food poisoning. She hadn't slept.

"Hello, kettle," Clint answered, small smile on his lips. Then, "Your breath smells like puke."

As it turned out, she wasn't too weakened from her illness to punch him.

But she was considerate enough to do it somewhere he wasn't already bruised.

* * *

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